The Stickman

He was a stickman,
A replica of a person,
Brought to life upon a page,
To a ballpoint mother,
Hastily penned and slightly smudged,

Art was his life,
His heartbeat,
The page was his home,
The quill was his ligaments,
And the ink his blood,

He dreamed big,
Ideas and scenarios always roiling in his head,
Fantasies in his circular head,
Of endeavours and monuments,
Of ladyfriends and families,

Alas,
Despite his aspirations,
With all of that potential,
He could only go where the pen led,
Only where the artist dictated.

Crossroads

Under motionless skies,
I stand here,
More perplexed than usual,
I’ve lost my sense of direction,
Or perhaps purpose,

Surrounded by dirt roads,
In all conceivable directions
Twisting about each other like vipers,
Some lined with hellfire and caltrops,
Others with pine trees and skinwalkers,

No path onward is safe I fear,
Even those coated in glitter and sun,
Is this what being lost is?
No signposts to offer clarity,
So what do I do?

Take a step?

Amygdala

The wine glass shatters,
A porcelain heart with it,
The table launches skyward,
This is a crisis,
And there are only two responses,
Two options,
Fight or flight,

Do you flee tail betwixt your legs?
Living to war another day,
Or do you attack?
Rip and tear the shards back together,
The amygdala kicks in,
That reptilian conductor in your head,
Decreeing these two human conclusions,

Time has not paused,
So what is to be done?
Grey matter already told you,
It’s fight or flight,
Inaction is no option,
So spar for them,
Or scram for yourself.

The Chorus

The mundanity has set in,
Like ink upon a lyric sheet,
The world reduced to a dour hum,
The previous verse has ceased,
The last bout of wonder is done,
The choir sets a generic rhythm,
Line by line,
And day by day,
Uninspired,

Now it’s just by the numbers,
Yet maybe I am mistaken,
I’d like to think so,
Perhaps this is just the chorus,
The reprieve,
More of the same,
Before a new verse,
A new start,
A new stimulus.

Automata

We are all automata,
Little toys of questionable longevity,
Following a set pattern,
Fashioned of matchsticks and turpentine,
We were left on some Geppetto’s worktable,
The crank was turned eons ago,
Starting out cyclical dramas,
Our faux miracles and science fairs,
You see,
Our autonomy is but an illusion,
We are but puppets,
And we can only follow the sequence,
Like any other mechanical curio,
Trapped in this cycle,
Until the inertia dies away.

Value Of Life

In your eyes,
What value has life?
What significance does it hold?
Every heartbeat,
Each birth,
Every soul,
Are they sacrosanct?

In your mind,
Does the value vary perhaps?
Is one life equal to another?
Peasant and Queen,
Youngling and elder,
One side of a border to another,
Are we all the same weight in gold?

I do wonder,
If there even is a decisive tariff,
And if fate is perhaps a better judge,
Chance a superior appraiser,
Do we just flip a coin,
Roll the dice,
To choose one life or some other?

Life

Life is precious,
Like a ruby set in a ribcage,
A canary in a mineshaft,
It is the most beautiful of things,
Revealed in all elements of the world,
Waterfalls and leaves and sunlight,
The blush upon a cheek,
The uneasy clamour of a foal,

It is also fragile,
Like ceramic lungs,
Easily damaged or snuffed outright,
Entropy always bearing down,
Ribs can crack,
Light always fades,
Water always evaporates,
The canary always suffocates.

Bridges

Life is rife with peril,
It’s a journey across lands unknown,
A yellow brick road,
Laden with trash and pennies,
No matter how far you walk,
There’ll always come a bridge,
Built upon miracles and curses,
Under which all manner of troll could hide,

It’s perilous yet unavoidable,
A turning point in some eyes,
You must cross the bridge,
Life demands it,
So keep living and walking,
Follow the road,
And cross another bridge,
And another.

Vindication

I’m not one to brag,
Nor chastise,
But I was right,
Right about what they were,
Their serpentine sneers,
Their mockeries whispered,
I was correct about what they did,
Their aggression,
The strikes they denied,
I was right,
Though this brings me no solace,

Of whom do I speak?
Of her,
Of him,
Of those people,
Whomever intended harm,
I was right.

Ingredients

Humans are made of all sorts,
A host of exotic ingredients,
Sugar spice and some things not so nice,
Herbs and poisons,
Garlic and cyanide,
Ore and gemstones,
Don’t forget the dead flesh,

The recipe isn’t always followed,
Or perhaps one doesn’t exist,
No human is a carbon copy,
The ingredients act in flux,
The outcome always a coin toss,
Sometimes an angel emerges from the hearth,
Other times a devil.